As the ashes set,

On the morning sun.

A thunderous clash begins,

Right on the mountain pass.

A child screams,

As the house groans.

A mother weeps,

on her spouses tomb.

Why oh why does the mother weep,

when her child feels like there in a heap.

as the ashes set,

on the morning sun.

Cries mean little to the dead,

Nothing but dry and brittle bread.

Calls to families long passed due,

But nothing is ever true.

Ever dry the brittle weed,

As we die little by little.

Even as death comes to pass,

We will all still be turned to ash.